


most things never happen; this one will.

by billielurked



Series: there are no more guns in the valley [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Arthur Morgan Lives, Epilogue, Family Fluff, Fix-It, M/M, Monsters, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24143668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billielurked/pseuds/billielurked
Summary: The journey north doesn't go as smoothly as planned-- Charles and Arthur must take another chance at saving an innocent life, no matter the risk.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Series: there are no more guns in the valley [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742317
Comments: 4
Kudos: 76





	most things never happen; this one will.

They'd spent nearly a week settled comfortably into Hamish's house- it still stood in disrepair, stripped of all its humble decorations. 

Charles had his reservations about staying in a dead man's home- Arthur had argued that Hamish would be glad it'd be going to some use rather than just rotting, empty. It was a fair point. 

Arthur's fingers twitched for his satchel- tobacco sounded awful nice at the moment, though he'd staunchly promised to leave it be. Wasn't good for his condition. Little was, really. He still felt paper thin some days.

"Charles?" He asked, gruff like he always was. Charles knew he meant it sweetly. 

A squeak of the floorboard. He leant his head out the open front door. "Yeah?" 

"You good?"

A huff. "Sure am." A moment of silence passed between them. 

"...It's real nice today, Charles. Weather shouldn't give us no trouble." 

A long, deep breath. Charles relaxed against the doorframe, nodding. "I hope not." Then, again, silence.

"Hey. Thank you," Before he could ask why-- "for- for all of it. For stickin' by me." 

Charles shook his head. "Didn't go trudging through Lakay with Sadie while you were enjoying a beach vacation, just to leave you now." 

"If _that's_ what's considered a vacation, I suppose I now understand why I never saw the appeal." 

Shoshanah and Taima grazed close by. He hoped they were prepared for the long ride ahead. Tapping a thumb against his forearm he continued, "You really took care of everyone while the rest of us was gone, didn't you?"

"I can't take all the credit. Sadie did half the hard work."

"But half still gone to you."

"Mm."

"Must've been awful, not knowin' what'd come next."

The silence in reply worried him. He tried to catch his eye, which Charles tactfully avoided. "I was half worried you weren't gonna come back."

"...You thought I was dead?"

"I-" Charles looked uncomfortable. "We didn't know what to think. It felt too long. Every hour was too long. And, I know you wouldn't have just up and left- hell knows you were set in your ways- but if a good enough opportunity had shown itself.. well. I don't know."

He'd thought he'd cut and run. Arthur swallowed. 

"We need to finish up packing if we want to make it anywhere reasonable by sunset." He patted the door frame once, turning to go attend to things.

"Now, hold on--"

"We can talk more in Canada, Arthur. Go get the horses ready."

  
  


°

As of late, Arthur had found himself thinking an awful lot about ranching, about the shepherd's life. He'd spent nearly an hour chewing Charles' ear off about sheep shearing, then another inquiring the inner workings of yeast, bread baking, and all sorts of things which Charles didn't have the answers to neither. 

He realized he knew damn well next to nothing when it came to idle living. 

Not _idle_ living, now hold on, more like _domestic_. What a word- one he'd never thought would come into his life. Never thought he'd be allowed it. Even as a boy, life at home had meant one in danger, in fear, cowering behind the barn in wait as -- 

"We should cut through the woods here," Charles interjected his train of thought, pointing up along the hillside.

"Since when is that ever a good idea?"

"I know this route. Government shipments come through here-- that means patrols."

"Damnit. You know the woods, then?"

"No." 

"Helpful." 

Charles didn't reply, gently urging Taima away from the road and onto rougher terrain. 

"This is Murfree country, Charles."

"Yup."

"I'd rather wrangle with government guns than them hick sons a'bitches."

"Even if those guns happen to belong to Pinkertons?"

"Pinkertons won't _eat_ me."

Charles shrugged, deadpan; "You never know."

He couldn't help but snort. "I'll ask nicely." 

"It's not our first time shinning around either of them. We'll be fine, if we're careful." 

"If you say so."

"Come on. Trust me."

"I do."

If asked, he'd deny having grumbled a bit as he reluctantly followed him up and away into the woods. 

The forest itself wasn't as evil and treacherous as his spoiled memory made it out to be; so long as they steered clear of their final campsite, all had ought to turn out just fine. They spent almost half an hour entirely unbothered by animal or person alike, Arthur busying himself guiding Shoshanah through the rocky underbrush, throwing suspicious sideways glances towards every small sound he heard. The sun slanted through the trees, illuminating the thickly overgrown forest floor. The craggy hills were interspersed with small creeks and waterfalls. The air smelled of rain. All was well. 

An abrupt yell broke him from his reverie.

The horses spooked, sidling further against the mossy cliff to the right of them. Both Charles and Arthur's hands flitted to their guns, cocked and at the ready, heads kept low. Shit. 

"Damnit!"

Arthur's head snapped to the left, where the man's voice came from. Far down the hill stood a scraggly looking young man, varmint rifle pointing shakily between the two of them. Couldn't be any older than 25. He peered at them, wide-eyed, from beneath his shaggy blonde hair.

"Who in the hell are you?" He shouted.

"None your damn business," Arthur barked back.

"Ain't supposed to be in these parts! Aint supposed to!"

"I'm not 'gon dignify you with a conversation less you put that rifle down right this damn minute, boy." 

He had the dignity to look offended by this-- but slowly lowered it nonetheless, once the two of them had lowered their own. Cleared his throat. "You got no business out here!"

"Ain't nobody's property. What gives you the right to be out here?"

"Well, I- don't you know?"

Arthur shrugged, baffled.

"The damn vermin that's been killin' our livestock.."

He waited, no less confused. "...What vermin?"

"It-- we'd agreed nobody'd come out here who weren't huntin' the damned thing. Can't risk it comin' up on nobody unawares."

"That don't make a lick of sense."

"Y'all don't look like no hunters. Don't look like no locals."

"Nope."

The young man seemed unsure of what to do now. "I-"

Arthur raised a placating hand. "Now, me and my partner here have got more'n enough sense to defend ourselves 'gainst whatever this thing is. We're not plannin' to stick around. Just let us go, no fuss about it."

"I...I don't know-"

Charles chose this moment to speak up. "We'll kill it if we see it." 

"Well.."

Arthur lowered his voice. "And we'll do you the same favor if we see you comin' up after us."

"No, sir, I wouldn't.."

"Have a nice day," he spat, and urged Shoshanah to get going again. Charles did the same. He kept an eye on the uneasy going fellow as he shifted from foot to foot, until they'd come to a curve in the way that blocked him from view. The woods felt oddly quiet.

Arthur looked at the trees and felt at a loss for what to do. He rode up a bit closer to Charles, who, naturally, infuriatingly, hadn't said a thing about the strange encounter. "So?"

Charles looked over at him. "So."

"That feller sure was antsy."

"Sounds like he had a reason to be."

"Reason enough to go back'n chance it on the road instead?"

"Mm…" He hummed, turning away. "Like you said, we can defend ourselves. Might just be foxes.."

"Didn't say chickens. Said _livestock_."

"Could still be chickens. I'm not saying we shouldn't take it seriously… lets just be careful, keep an eye out." 

Arthur sighed, nodding resolutely. The air smelled heavy and mossy in these parts, the trees soaked through with last night's rain; small waterfalls poured in rivulets from where said water still trickled down the hillsides, turning their path into a far muddier one than he'd have preferred. Charles was right-- figured they'd have a better chance against some lone wolf or bear than a pack of trigger-happy militiamen or Pinkertons. His hand didn't leave the pistol at his hip.

Taima wasbrought to a stop with an abrupt tug of her reins, throwing her head back as she veered away. "Hold on," Charles murmured, staring intently at the path ahead. He couldn't see around him and the damn horse, whatever was-- 

A pathway through the trees. By craning his neck, he spotted it too; it looked freshly trodden, branches and bushes flattened to the muddy ground. He followed Charles' gaze down to a scrap of what looked like fur dangling from a bramble. 

"Someone's been out this way."

"Very, very recently." Charles squinted at some tracks along the way. "Some kind of animal."

The lack of certainty felt incredibly out of character-- Arthur looked at the tracks with just as much focus and realized that he, too, couldn't quite identify them. They were somewhat horselike, but only two at a time, and with something almost resembling a human hand intercepting its path. Uncanny. He didn't like the look of it. 

"You see that?"

Arthur grunted.

"Look like human hands."

"Maybe it..dragged someone?"

"Could be."

Arthur was now sitting astride Shoshanah right beside him, their legs brushing ever so slightly. "I don't think I've seen nothing like-"

"Shut up," Charles said, gripping his arm. "Just.."

"What? I-"

"Listen." He gave his arm a firm squeeze, insistent, urgent. Arthur clamped his eyes shut, listening intently. 

The wind blew gently through the trees in a soft wave, like the ocean. Crickets hummed and trilled. A bird somewhere sang softly, another replying. And then he heard it; the sound of crying. A baby crying, or a child, most definitely young. A crying child, wailing distantly.

He sat upright, immediately pushing Shoshanah into a quick trot in that direction- Charles grip on his arm slipped away despite his attempt to tug him back. They picked hurriedly through the crushed underbrush, up and over a craggy hill littered with bits of broken stone, alongside a fallen tree and up further until a clearing came into sight. 

There, 30 feet away, nestled between the trees stood a small, ramshackle house. The siding was unpainted, the entire thing barren of adornment, entirely lacking in excess or attention beyond what was sturdy and necessary. There was no furniture on the front porch. The windows were covered by cotton sheets. There was no livestock to be seen.

Behind him, he heard Charles inhale sharply. 

His stomach turned. Not more than a few feet to their left lay two corpses, just by a broken section of the fence, the wooden planks sliding down the hill in a sea of red. 

They were filthy, utterly mutilated, and nauseatingly fresh. 

"No," Charles breathed quietly, coming up alongside him to stare. Arthur dismounted Shoshanah, letting her warily back up away from the distressing scene as he himself walked closer. He coughed, gagging into his sleeve; tugged his bandana up over his face as he squatted a bit away from them. 

Looked like a woman and a man. The man lay on his back, his head nowhere to be seen. The woman, on the other hand, lay face down, draped across his middle. From the state of her gruesomely injured back, he felt no hope for her possible survival. Blood was smeared across the grass in long streaks, pooling from them, no longer trickling down the hillside as it now dried. 

Truth be told, they looked partially eaten. The fact they still lie there made the hair on the back of his neck stand at alert. 

"Whatever, whoever did this... doesn't look like it got to finish."

The child's cries sounded far louder now, no longer muffled by distance; it was clear it came from inside that house. He felt sick to his stomach, and terribly sad.

"Arthur, you go check the house. I'll make sure there's no one around." He dismounted Taima.

"You sure?" He looked over at his lover in abject distress, brows furrowed. Charles, no matter how strong he was, wouldn't be any better off against the thing that had killed them than these unfortunate folks, guns or not. 

"Yes. That sound won't help any of us.. need to go make sure they're safe. Come on, go."

"I can't just…."

Seeing Arthur's unbudging concern, he came close and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. " _Go_."

Whatever the hell had happened to those folks was just as gruesome as the deaths he'd seen at the hands of those bastards in Saint Denis, just the month before. He glanced around in subdued terror. The air did not smell of dog; there was no sign of wolves. There were no werewolves here. His breath still trembled as he approached the house. 

The porch creaked as he stepped up to it. The screen door was shut, but the inner door wasn't, swinging slowly back and forth in the breeze. The crying grew louder as he stepped inside, tense and prepared for anything to come bursting from some unseen corner.

The house was small and blank, mostly wood, mostly empty. The hallway boards were covered by a fraying rug, his footsteps muffled as he walked towards what he assumed to be the bedroom, where the cries rang out. "Hello?" He spoke gently, warily approaching the doorless frame. "I don't mean any harm."

The room was plain. A bed, two side tables, a dresser. A crib.

A _crib_. 

His heart pounded, every old parental instinct he's forgotten he had now bursting forth as he rushed over, nearly tripping over himself to get to it. 

The child inside the crib was incredibly small. Wrapped in soft blue, her tiny fists thrashed as she cried. His terror subsided, replaced with urgent concern. 

He reckoned she was around four or five months- so tiny nonetheless, so inherently gentle and sweet that Arthur felt alarmingly unworthy of holding her. 

He knew children were sturdier than they looked, but looking between her tiny hands and his own worn, rough ones, he couldn’t help but feel he might break her. The infant only cried out louder, tiny hands clenched tightly as she wailed. Her cries may drawn the attention of anyone, or anything, within hearing range. He picked up the stray blue blanket draped over the edge of her crib. It had been so long since he last held a child in his arms. 

Wrapping her gently in the soft fabric, his mind rushed to thoughts of Isaac, even to Jack, and times when he had done this same thing with them. But she didn't look like either of the boys. This, at least, was a small mercy. With chubby round cheeks, a head of dark, tight curls and eyes darker than even Charles', she was a lovely thing, precious as could be. Arthur fretted to himself as he cradled her in his arms. She cried more quietly than before, but tears streamed down her face. His big hands almost enveloped her. He wished the earth would swallow him up on the spot. Arthur began walking back to the hallway with her.

Charles burst into the cabin, gun drawn. "It's all clear-"

Arthur's hand twitched for his own, instinctually stepping back into the corner on account of the loud noise. Once he saw it was only Charles he visibly relaxed, hands moving once again to cradle the infant against his chest. "Charles," he spoke hoarsely. "Charles, their baby." 

"Oh." Charles looked shocked as Arthur was. The loud noise of his entrance seemed to have startled said baby, who burst out crying yet again- screaming, kicking her legs. He stared flatly at the child, with that look on his face that Arthur knew as deep, deep thought. Arthur thought about her parents just outside, torn apart, bled and cold; he felt close to crying, himself. Had the killer known that she was in here?

He briefly thought back on all the people he had killed and wondered how many children he had orphaned in the process, how many partners he had widowed. His head felt heavy, his thoughts too quick for his own good.

The baby was still crying. Her uncoordinated, chubby baby hands flailed in the air, tightly grasping his shirt and tugging, pressing her little face into his chest as she wept. His expression crumbled. Charles stepped closer as he comfortingly stroked the baby's head, soothing her in the most gentle tone he could muster. One thumb brushed over her soft little cheek. "It'll be alright, shhh...sshhh.. don't you worry. You're safe now, shhh. You're safe, sweetie, sshh, it's okay." 

He resisted the urge to press his face to her, to cuddle her tightly against himself until both their beating hearts slowed and relaxed- but he couldn't bear the thought of getting her sick, or frightening her more. Arthur was no good with children, or at least so he told himself. His presence alone certainly was no good for them. The nerves overwhelmed him. The baby was still weeping. "Charles, put- put your gun away." 

He hadn't noticed he'd long ago holstered it, right at first glance at the girl. He didn't have to say a thing before Charles helpfully reached out to take her from him, gently cradling her in his own arms where she almost instantly began to settle down. Arthur watched, breathing hard through his nose to ease the rising distress in himself. 

He had to admit to himself that the sight was one to behold; the baby stared up at Charles with those wide, doe-like eyes set just a bit far apart, seemingly captivated by this new stranger, all tears and distress quickly forgotten. Charles hummed and slowly rocked to and fro, the crease of concern in his brow the only sign of worry in his otherwise relaxed demeanor. The child was dwarfed by the size of his strong arms, but seemed to find comfort there. She sniffled and cooed, uncoordinated little hands slapping weakly at his chest, the stocky movements quickly turning from panic to curiosity. She gave a loose strand of his hair a firm tug. Charles smiled at her, warm and gentle as could be. "Hey there."

Once her sniffles had faded and she took to plucking interestedly at her new friend's polka-dot shirt, Arthur cleared his throat. "Is- was there anythin' on her parents, Charles? Documents? Letters, something lettin' us know if maybe she got family somewhere- somebody to go to?" Hoarsely he added, "Those _were_ her parents?" 

Charles stared at the baby. Shook his head. "Weren't a thing on them. A handkerchief in the woman's pocket. A bottle of half-drunk medicine in her husband's satchel, some water, an empty holster on his belt. There might've been more... But they were her parents; must have been." He cast a glance around the cabin, pointing at the framed photo on the table of the two parents. They looked similar enough to the bodies of those outside. The rest of the room was disheveled, bare-bones, as though they'd only just begun to move in. "I'll hold her. You should search the place."

"Alright. Yeah." 

In the sink cabinets he found a bottle of cleaning solution, a neat stack of rags, some coffee stained newspapers. On the shelves along the wall there was nothing more than some tins of coffee, a box of tea leaves, dozens and dozens of canned goods and a case of salt. A jar of honey, never opened. One lace doily. 

There was no cooking stove in the space assumably meant for one. No outhouse built outside. The table was low and clearly not meant as a kitchen table, covered in stacked plates and empty tin cups. The windows had no curtains and the walls were bare. 

The most detailed part of the entire home was the open, doorless bedroom, the bed itself covered in thin sheets, the crib the only space with any sort of color or adornment. There, a single yarn-haired doll, its left eye plucked out and the right only a button. A painting of a green field was propped up against the wall, not even hung yet, no nail in the wall. The side table held a matchbook, a game of jacks, a sewing kit, a tin of buttons- no paper at all really but for a crumpled and evidently unread instructional manual to the sewing kit, shoved into the back of the box. 

The armoire held nothing but clothes, clothes, sheets, a money clip of four dollars, blankets and more clothes-- Arthur became more frustrated as he searched, rifling quickly through everything in a desperate hunt for any sign of personal information. Nothing. Nothing at all. 

With an angry thump to his steps he returned to the front room, where he found Charles sitting back against the wall on one of the blankets, seemingly having a very calm staring contest with the swaddled baby. "There's nothing, Charles."

His eyes flicked up to him. "You're sure?"

"Yes, I sure as hell am."

Charles hummed, chewed on his thoughts for a second. "Maybe they couldn't read or write. No documents." A quick glance around the house. "Or they'd been here so briefly they had no time for it. Didn't have paper." 

"So newly moved they ain't even thought to send letters. Or had no one to write." Arthur scowled.

"Had them on themselves but were robbed. The papers gone with their money. Already mailed. Or maybe they were isolationists." 

"I don't like it.. How long's she been here alone? Why'd the brood kill'em? Why didn't they find her, and why'd she been left alone the first place?" Arthur spat on the ground, starting to pace to and fro. The other man didn't answer, taking a bit too long as he considered. "Charles!" 

"Calm down. You'll unsettle her." 

When Arthur didn't stop his restless pacing, Charles steeled his voice to something more demanding. "Arthur, stop. Sit by me. You hold her." 

He stared. His heart quickened again, that strange anxiety creeping up the back of his neck, his head swimming with nerves. "I'm not- I ain't no nursemaid." 

Charles shrugged. "Neither am I." 

"I'm not-"

"You're a human being with arms. It's your turn." 

Arthur scowled. Arthur sat, and took the baby into his arms. Charles stretched his own out before moving to sit with his legs crossed over each other in his lap, elbows on knees, eyes moving between the baby and the man who held her. "Think, Arthur. They killed them because that's what the brood _does_ when there's folks on their territory. The two looked awful young, naive." Arthur rocked the baby, still unconvinced. Charles himself didn't look so sure himself. "No sign of a scuffle, so they'd probably been taken by surprise. Maybe been taking a walk or just lookin' into the woods. The tracks were fresh- I'd say a day, maybe two."

" _Two days_ alone." 

"Mm." 

"And that feller we saw out there…"

"Said it himself; he was searching the area. If we could hear her, if he followed us, so could he." 

"I don't think he followed us, but if he tells we were out here then more might come this way soon." 

"They might."

"...What was even _done_ to them? I haven't seen a person's body look like _that_ since.." He recoiled a bit at the nasty memories which resurfaced; he hadn't given any thought to the horrific murders of that serial killer he'd dealt with all those months ago. He hoped Charles wouldn't ask what he meant by it. It reminded him even more distinctly of those grisly werewolf's killings.

"It wasn't the _wolve_ , was it?"

Charles just stared at the ground. Shook his head

What had even happened to the poor girl's parents? He'd joked about the Murfrees eating folks, but by God, he hadn't thought there would be such a truth to it. His skin crawled, and he held the baby more tightly to him. The image of the odd tracks leading to the bodies still stuck in his mind.

Charles reached to adjust her blanket. His hand lingered, as did his eyes; Arthur couldn't help but stare at the soft, concerned look he found there.

He paused, breaking from his reverie. "She must be starvin'!" 

"Must be." Charles glanced back at the kitchen. "Think she's old enough for regular food?"

Arthur nodded seriously. "She should be. She's over the age'a needin' milk exclusively, least looks that way, holds her head up just right enough for it, though she might not take it." His head snapped up, eyes flying to the shelf again. _Yes_! "Charles, darlin', go over there will you? Since you've got me on baby duty. Check those canned goods on the shelf, all of 'em." 

He did as he was asked, rifling through can after can, setting aside everything labeled with regular adult servings of beans, oats, vegetables. " _Ridge’s Food for Infants_ and _Nestlé’s Milk_ ," he read off the oddly labeled cans all of a sudden, pulling them from the shelf. There were around eleven of them, one half opened, all greatly outnumbering the other types of canned food left. "Other things too; beans, corn, so on. Is that right?"

"Why're you askin' me?"

"You know these things better than I do."

Arthur blinked at him. He thought of the first time he held Isaac in his arms, so small he could not even lift his own head. So fragile. How the baby in his arms cooed, how she cried, the way her hands moved, even the way she _smelled_ reminded him of his son, all distinct and painful. He supposed he did know well enough. He mustered up a weak laugh. "I guess. Yeah, that should work just fine. I- You never..?"

"Never had any siblings. Spent most of my youth alone." Charles, stacking the cans on the table to check the count again, looked over at the two of them. "I don't know the first thing about children." 

"Seems to like you well enough. Quit her cryin' the moment you held her."

"She's curious."

"Sure is." He gently brushed one of her curls from her brow. "Maybe I'm too funny lookin'. Scared her outta her wits."

"She's just hungry, and frightened."

"Try the formula. Might want to save the hardier food for later, she might take more kindly to this first…"

 _Crack_ went Charles' knife, digging into one of the baby formula cans. 

Arthur stared down at the girl, with her wide-set eyes and her tiny hands that seemed dead set on grabbing the shirt of whosoever chose to hold her. He lightly pressed a finger to her round nose, watching as it wrinkled, the girl giggling that special way that only babies could. He smiled fondly down at her. "I don't even know your name, sweetheart... I'm Arthur." He pointed at himself, enunciating forcefully through his thick accent. "Ar _-thur_." 

She responded in a babble of incoherent yet confident gibberish. 

"Maybe we'll still find something about her. She's more talkative than the both of us and she's only just been born. Might say her own name yet," he teased, grinning to himself. 

"Maybe so."

°

The three stayed there in the cabin overnight. 

They couldn't risk leaving before nightfall with her; they still needed to keep her fed and allow her time to sleep, not to mention how idiotic it would be to go traipsing around Murfree country past dark with an infant. 

The idea of leaving without her didn't even come to mind for either of them. Arthur had also weakly suggested that some acquaintance or family might show up, were they just to wait for daybreak- that there must be some chance of reconnection. Charles didn't think it very likely, but didn't bother to crush his hopes. They had both lost parents at very young ages; it was clear to see that they both grieved for her loss, regardless of whether she was of any age to process it herself. 

Charles wondered if she would miss her mother. Would she wonder who she was? If she left her? He decided that whatever the outcome might be for her, she would know the truth. 

Arthur had set his own bedroll only a few feet away from the child's bed, perfectly fine to sleep on the floor. It didn't feel right to take the bed of her parents. He was awoken by the sound of the baby cooing and patting her hands against the sides of the bed. She'd start crying again soon were she not to get the attention or food she sought. 

It wasn't until he shook off the blur of sleep that he realized it wasn't morning at all- she'd woken him in what seemed to be the middle of the night. A glance out the window confirmed it. Probably around two or three in the morning. He sighed.

Adjusting his sleep-wrinkled clothes, he stooped to gently pull her from her crib. Again her flailing hands sought purchase on his shirt, then tightly grasping his left forefinger and adamantly refusing to let go of it. He grinned. 

Charles had held children before in his life, some even younger than her, but never for so long or with such responsibility attached to the act. Out here she was all alone. Out here, she had only him and Arthur, two men long since on the run. 

What did they have to offer her? 

Survival, he supposed, first and foremost. By sheer luck they had come across her, sheer luck which he figured would run out for her very quickly if they weren't extremely careful going forward. They didn't exactly have a good track record when it came to avoiding danger.

He walked to the cabinet, holding her in one arm as he poured her a bottle of milk with the other. She gurgled impatiently.

Rocking her gently as she drank, he walked in slow circles around the table. How Arthur was sleeping through it all was a mystery to him- he doubted he'd even be able to go back to sleep so quickly after this. 

The baby seemed to disagree, grunting, the bottle slipping from her mouth as she swiftly relinquished herself to her exhaustion. Didn't even twitch when he placed her back in the crib.

It was hard not to stare at her, concern and endearment clenching his heart. They'd only just met, but he knew he'd go to great lengths to keep her safe. 

The restless energy of anxiety chewed away at him. It was a good time to stand guard, anyway- they'd been planning to sleep in shifts, but it seemed like Arthur had fallen asleep preemptively. He could hardly blame him, considering the day, hell, the _months_ they'd had. 

The air outside was cold and crisp. The smell of lavender and rotting flesh stank up the area in a sickening way which he couldn't even begin to stifle or ignore, only hoping it wasn't bothering the baby. 

He planted his boots firmly down on the muddy ground, leaning back on his hands as he stared into the surrounding woods. It felt wrong, leaving the bodies of those two out in the open air, but it wasn't wise to go burying corpses in the middle of the night, especially with possible danger so close. 

His palm rested by his quiver, the bow resting on his lap. 

Whether it was any wiser to just leave them lying there was another issue altogether, one which he was beginning to doubt. Really, they should've taken her and left, packed up what they could carry and gone onwards and upwards, built a safe camp… 

He put his face in his hands, sighing. Endless self-criticism wouldn't do them any good. Panic even less so. 

Something in the air changed.

The low hum of the cicadas and crickets became abruptly subdued. No owls hooted. No birds cried out. No squirrels scuttled by or deer passed through the trees. All was still. The forest was holding her breath. 

Charles slowly moved into a crouch, stepping down onto the dirt, notching an arrow against his bow.

A horrible noise emanated from the black expanse of the woods. Something like a low, guttural moan, pained and drawn out. For a second he almost thought one of the parents must still be alive but no, no, it wasn't human enough. That sound wasn't human. Too deep, too gargling. 

The trees seemed to shift and sway; he heard a creaking noise, like a rusted hinge swinging slowly. Hoofbeats approached the corpses. Towards him.

What he saw in the trees made his skin crawl. First, he saw only the face; sunken in and skeletal, it looked like a horses head, with enormous antlers protruding from it.

It emerged slowly from the darkness.

There it was- the massive body of some unidentifiable creature, with the physicality of a man, the mass of a bear, a rippling bony spine elongated and stretched beyond what the grey, seeped skin seemed built to contain, thin and wrinkled like packaging paper or the thin surface of a crepe. 

It didn't move like anything he'd seen before, didn't run or trot or walk, it _scuttled_ , it flitted from behind the fence to perch over the bodies with an uncanny speed for its enormity, and all with the light sure-footedness of a doe.

It reeked of rotted meat, smelled almost chemical, harsh, caused a burning in the nostrils and a full-body reaction; he couldn't help but to physically recoil from the gruesome stench which blew in his direction. With a guttural groan it sunk to its knees and started ravaging the bodies, tearing them apart in feral, frantic consumption. 

His eyes stung, chest heaving. The bow never moved from by his hip, strung and taut but never raised. 

The most frightening part of the encounter was not that the creature seemed intent on him next. No; it acknowledged him, kept its eyes trained on him, but showed no reaction whatsoever. 

No anger, fear, hunger. 

No defensiveness or territorial behavior. Only that cold, empty, eyeless stare. It stared and did not blink.

It didn't take it's eyes off him for a _second_ , even as it dragged the bodies of the girl's parents back and away down the hill. 

Like some strange pact between them, it did not hurt him- only took what it came for, and left. What else could Charles do? What use was revenge if it was letting him live? There was a horror and obscenity to a monster too dead to kill, one he would have to grapple with during sleepless nights. But not tonight- tonight he was responsible for four lives.

He made no attempt to follow or hunt it. All he could really even do was stand, trembling, and back slowly into the house. 

  
  


°

  
  


"How should we carry her? Can't hold her in my arms if I'm to be ridin'." 

"Soon we'll have the time to make a cradleboard." He swallowed, looking around at the night sky. They had not waited for daybreak. "We don't have that kind of time right now."

Arthur sniffed, glancing about at the unsettling forest. His gaze stopped on the spot where the corpses had been dragged away. "Reckon we don't." 

"We don't have the time to do _anything_ . We need to _go_."

"I know, Charles." Whatever the beast was that Charles had seen, he believed him without hesitation. The proof was right there, in the lack of bodies to put to rest. "But we can't just run away. Got to get our things together."

"We could use a sling. Use the bedsheets, or a strong scarf." 

"Sure." 

They walked as they talked, hurriedly rifling through whatever they may need, Arthur tucking cans into the bear bag while Charles checked once more for any possessions which might help them.

Busy stacking cans, he at first didn't notice the other man freeze. 

“Her parents.” 

Arthur nodded. “What about them?” 

“ _Llewelyn_ and _Mona_ , looks like.” Arthur looked up- he was holding out a framed photo. “No surnames written..”

“Oh.”

The baby’s father was broad shouldered, poised calmly against one wall with both sleeves rolled to the elbow. He wore a thin, frayed shirt, his work gloves still on. Her mother, tall and kindly looking, leant against him, her hair tied back with a scarf, a serene smile on her face. Behind them was a nondescript paper backdrop- just trees, the edges of the picture worn from touch. No one else with them. No name of the photographer, no date or time to be found. 

Charles took it back to stare it long and hard, as though willing some sign or secret to arise from it. Nothing happened. Arthur gestured to his saddlebag. "Pack the picture too. It's hers."

Once they'd securely tied her into a sling on Charles' back, bags full with all they'd need, they mounted their horses and took a final wary look at the strange little house. He had marked it on a map in his journal, just in case. It felt odd to leave it now.

The road away felt longer than that they took to get here. Tension kept him looking warily back over his shoulder as they rode, or glancing with concern at the infant as she stared at him from the sling, mouth hanging open. He stuck out his tongue; she giggled hysterically, fascinated. 

After some time they slowed, coming gradually closer to the road. They'd both agreed the deep woods weren't any safer a place to be than the road after all. 

Their calves brushed as they rode alongside one another. Arthur swallowed.

"We _are_ goin' to pass near some cities up north."

Charles glanced over at him, brow furrowed. "Yes."

"With people know more about children, presumably."

"Mm."

He shrugged, trying to stifle the tremor of guilt in his tone. "Maybe they'd know..what to do with the girl."

Charles visibly tensed.

"You mean maybe they'd take her."

"Only if they're good folk."

Charles turned his face away, not meeting his gaze. "You can't know they'll _stay_ good."

"I only- I figured I don't know where to even begin with a kid."

"You know more than I do."

"That ain't a good thing."

Charles just looked at him, prompting him to go on. 

"I ain't cut out to be a father to nobody, Charles."

"But you are one."

"Not anymore." Arthur turned his chin sharply. "Besides, what life have we- what have I got to give her?"

His shoulders seemed to slump in defeat. "I don't know. Honestly, I don't." Gently, he reached around behind himself to adjust the baby in her sling. "I know I have to keep her safe."

"I didn't think you was even a.. family man."

"I am." He paused, cleared his throat. "I want to be."

"But-"

"With you."

"I." Arthur's eyes stung, his head hot, vision blurring for a second. Shit. All the years of grief over his son now welled up in his chest once more, only now they didn't drag him into misery so much as fill him with desperate nostalgia. Maybe it could be different this time. 

He looked long and hard at Charles, reaching out to rest a hand softly on his own. "I'd like that."

"Yeah?"

"If I've got you by my side I figure I can face anythin'." He grinned. "Don't hurt none that she's cute, neither."

A soft laugh rolled through him. They sat in silence for a moment, hands intertwined.

“I think we should name her, Arthur.” 

This gave him pause yet again. "I don't know if that’s- if that’s really our right.” 

“Feels worse having nothing to call her but ‘the baby’. She should have a name, even if it’s not the first one she’s had.” 

Arthur looked back at her, her curly head resting against Charles' shoulder as she breathed slowly, eyes shut. 

He thought on how Eliza asked him for a name. _Isaac_ , he’d said, Isaac, the only son of Abraham so dearly beloved- the kind of name a faithful, fearful man might choose his child be named. Maybe he should’ve chosen a name from a story not so full of death. He couldn’t chance it again. “I reckon you should be the one to name her,” Swallowing, Arthur gently squeezed Charles’ arm. “you choose.” 

They came to a slow stop. He helped him slowly untie the sling so he could hold her.

The white-hot afternoon made Charles squint as he stared at the little child bundled in his arms. He squinted, and squinted, and she didn’t squint back because she had sunk so deep into sleep, her little hands twitching as they held onto him for dear life. She was so calm when held by him.

"Wenona," he said, and took a chance at a good life. 

**Author's Note:**

> "What was unforeseen is now a bird orbiting this field. What wasn't a possibility is present in our arms. It shall be, and begins with you." - Vows (for a gay wedding) by Joseph O. Legaspi.
> 
> I know this wasn't remotely near the level of depth and length as in the original fic, but I just wanted to write a short, sweet, and naturally a little bit ominous follow-up, mostly for myself. I miss these characters. Thank you for all your kind support: I love and appreciate you all very much.
> 
> I write Charles as being Lakota. If he learned his mother's language, he may speak Lakȟótiyapi. The name chosen for the baby, Winúŋna, anglicized as Wenona, means first-born daughter. I am a white non-Native. If any of this information is harmful, misleading, or incorrect, please don't hesitate to reach out. 
> 
> All my love.


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